☻ ABOUT . ISSUES . EVENTS ☻



π™±πš›πš˜πš—πš πš’πš— π™ΆπšŠπš›πšπšŽπš—-πš‚πš–πš’πšπš‘

-... .-. .. - .-


Sometimes they make Brita pour water before she’s ready,
when she’s still top-heavy to bursting, drooling
a little as they tip her over. She hates that, the indignity,
but winks her green as ever, unless she’s really really fucked up
particularly bad day of arsenic asbestos nitrates radon
or pesticides. Her single tooth is bright white and beautiful,
but her gums, too prominent. She’s too eager, felt ugly all of high school
just to later envy her smooth skin, her body once clear and scratchless.
Her parents are the controlling type. She has to stay home all weekend
though everyone knows she can handle her drink. Brita’s always been
great at making decisions. Keep filter, replace. She understands logic,
knows all the possible outcomes in a fixed set, is familiar with sacrifice.
Her speech is unusual, but she has a lot to say. The others
at the table never seem to notice the blink of her green light,
bright in Morse code, each dot a little more desperate.

π™±πšπ™Έπšƒπ™° πš‚π™Ώπ™΄π™°π™Ίπš‚


I WANT PEOPLE TO LISTEN TO ME.
I WANT PEOPLE TO WANT ME.
I WANT TO HURT THE PEOPLE AROUND ME.
I WANT TO CALL THE CAT OVER AND POKE OUT ITS EYE
AND ROLL IT AROUND LIKE A MARBLE.
I WANT TO CUT MYSELF FOR ATTENTION.
I WANT TO BE A WRITER. I WANT TO BE A PAINTER.
I WANT TO GO TO MED SCHOOL
AND WORK AS A NEUROSURGEON ON THE WEEKENDS
JUST TO SHOW THE WORLD I COULD.
I WANT TO SCREAM AT A LITTLE BOY THAT MY LIFE
HAS BEEN INCOMPREHENSIBLY HARDER THAN HIS.
I WANT TO FUCK MY MOM AND KILL MY DAD.
I WANT TO POST PHOTOS OF MY NAKED BODY ON THE INTERNET
AND RUIN MY JOB PROSPECTS.
I WANT NOT TO HAVE TO HAVE ANY JOB PROSPECTS.
I WANT TO SMASH THE GLASS OF THE WINDOW
AND JUMP OUT FROM THE LEDGE AND HOVER THERE
IN THE AIR LIKE AN ANGRY PLASTIC GHOST.
WHEN I FALL I WANT TO BREAK MYSELF WIDE OPEN ON THE PAVEMENT.
I WANT THE SPILL OF MY INNARDS TO WATER THE FLOWERS.
I WANT TO REMIND PEOPLE THAT THEY LOVE THE SMELL OF THE RAIN.
I WANT TO MELT MYSELF DOWN INTO OIL.
I WANT TO GO BACKWARDS IN TIME AND LIVE AS THE ANIMALS THAT MADE ME.
I WANT TO BE A DINOSAUR GNASHING MY ROWS OF GIANT TEETH.
I WANT TO RUN THROUGH THE GRASS OF A YOUNGER AND MORE BEAUTIFUL
EARTH.
BUT I CAN’T.
SO I’LL STAND OVER THE STOVE
TILL I’M ACRID AND SICK
TILL I’M CURLING WITH TAR
TILL I BLACKEN AND DRIP AND POOL ON THE FLOOR
INSTEAD OF WANTING ANYTHING AT ALL.



        Bronwyn Garden-Smith is a writer from Ontario who now calls TiohtiΓ :ke/MontrΓ©al home. She edits poetry at Yolk Literary. Her work has appeared in carte blanche, Soliloquies, Acta Victoriana, Goose, and more.